The Child's Aim Must Miss
by Lily White
Summary: Harry was doomed to fail at the hands of Voldemort before either one walked the earth. How, then, is Harry supposed to make it through his eductaion at Hogwarts alive? With a little help from...wouldn't you like to know? Let's put it this way, "his eyes a
1. Prologue: The Ill-Fated Prophecy

Hey people! Here it is, my new series! Okay, my goal is to become the next Cassandra Claire (never happen in a million years, but hey, wish upon a star, right?). This story took two and a half hours, cooped up in Scarlett Stephanie's bedroom, just to get rid of the plot holes, not to mention the story line itself. Props to Scarlett for coming up with the character Cassandra (BTW, not connected to Cassandra Claire. Just coincidence. Anyone who knows Greek mythology should get it) and for writing the prophecy, even though you don't get to read it yet. Trust me, it rocks! She has a knack for rhyming poetry that I just don't possess. Read her stuff, if she ever posts anything *growls at Scarlett*As always, REVIEW OR DIE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Just kidding folks! But, reviews would be nice.......^_~

# The Child's Aim Must Miss: Prologue

Let this be known, all genuine oracles die many a time before they leave this world for good. That is how people receive knowledge, through death. It has once been said that the only path to enlightenment is reserved for the deceased, and it is as true today as it was when it was spoken. There is nothing special about gaining universal knowledge after death; the impressive, magical part is returning to this world, to share the information with all those near and far. Cassandra, a poor orphan witch with no clue to her identity and no money in her purse, was the all-knowing oracle, the prophet of truth. She never spoke a false word in her life, and had been possessed of heavenly knowledge since birth.Looked upon by the villagers in ancient Greece as a goddess, she made the unfortunate mistake of angering the Gods on Mount Olympus, of awakening their jealousy. As punishment, Cassandra was cursed to have her prophecies ignored, to never be believed again…. 

Cassandra dimmed the lights in her bed chamber, snuffing out every last candle until she sat in total darkness. She picked up a piece of parchment, stiff and dull yellow. Her face was pale, her mouth set in a grim line. All in all, she gave the air of someone resolved to their fate, however bleak that fate may be.

"I'll show them....I'll show them all! Once they see...once they know....the Gods were wrong...I WILL be believed, so help me!" she said into the cool night air, her voice rising from a whisper to an enraged shout as her eyes gazed heavenward, towards the ceiling. "I will be feared, I will be loved. Cassandra, the all-knowing oracle. The prophetess who saved the universe from the burning rains of hell. They will be singing my praises, dancing in the streets of Athens! I am Cassandra! I am more powerful than the Gods themselves! For that is why they fear me, that is why they have cursed my name," she continued, talking to no one in particular, seeing as she was alone. She was mumbling now, ringing her hands together in her lap. Her eyes rolled back into her skull as her head lolled grotesquely on her limp neck. 

She now reached out once again for the piece of parchment, placing it in front of her on a small table. She herself was sitting on the end of her bed, hunched over with her head lolling about like that of a rag doll. She slowly extended her arm to grasp a quill, dipped it into a shallow ink bottle, almost empty, and began to write. Her hand danced and flew across the page, seemingly of its own accord; its owner was perfectly stiff, save for the arm, with her eyes closed and her head thrown back, sending waves of long, auburn hair down her shoulders. Cassandra's entire body was rigid, and cold to the touch. If anyone had bothered to feel her wrist, they would not have found a pulse. No breath entered her lungs, no air exited her mouth. She was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Except for the arm, which continued to write at a frantic pace. The hand paused, wrote one last line upon the parchment, and then spasmed. When the hand lay still, a sound came from the woman belonging to it. The sound of death rattle.

With a shudder, Cassandra's spirit entered back into her body. Her head snapped forward, her eyes alert and eager to see what she had written. She gazed down at the piece of yellow parchment before her, reading her prophecy. She then snatched up the paper frantically, knocking over the ink bottle. Black ink smeared the floor, spattering in all directions.

"Steps must be taken....They'll never believe me, no matter what....I must do SOMETHING!" Cassandra cried out in frustration. Suddenly, she sprinted out of her bed chamber, knocking over the table as she bolted for the hall. She ran downstairs to her study, and grabbed a heavy volume, blood red with golden markings, from the highest shelf. She flipped frantically through the pages, until she came to what she was looking for. She then took the parchment upon which the prophecy was written and tore it into five pieces. Three pieces were very large and contained many lines of script, while the other two contained but one line each. She took the pieces into her kitchen, where she proceeded to set up her huge cast iron cauldron over a roaring fire.

After adding a great many things, many of which disgusting, she set the cauldron to boil and waited. When the concoction was spewing violet smoke into the air in thick clouds, she stood, holding the five pieces of parchment in front of her face. She read them off one by one, before throwing them all into the cauldron. The potion gave an evil hiss, and sent golden sparks into the air as the flames in the grate lept higher and higher. As she watched the spell take shape, Cassandra muttered under her breath...

"Divinitas compleo.

Societatem coire.

COMMITTO!" She shouted the last word at the top of her lungs, and then watched as five objects soared out of the great black cauldron and landed at her feet. The first was a stone tablet, roughly the same size and shape of a headstone, with the first part of the prophecy carved into it. Next came a minute golden key, inscribed with one line of verse. Following that, a small book, bound in leather, with but the very first page filled in. It bore the second verse of Cassandra's prophecy. Fourth came a medallion, shining golden in the dim moonlight coming in through the kitchen window, bearing the third portion of the ill-fated prophecy. Last came a silver ring, beautifully made with an amethyst set inside a design of winding ivy leaves. Engraved into the inside band was the final line of Cassandra's prediction.

Taking these objects carefully into her arms, the prophet opened her front door and stepped cautiously into the cool night air. She scratched a five-pointed star into the dirt, standing in the center. Then, she sang out "Divinitas compleo!" once more before opening her arms, letting go of the five objects. Surprisingly, they did not fall at her feet, but soared into the air towards the heavens. Each hovered a moment above a point of the star, seperate but connected by the cosmic shape, before vanishing into the darkness. Cassandra smiled to herself; her work was done. She went to bed happy and contented, knowing that she would be the savior of the universe.

She dreamed of the objects, of where their flight had taken them. In her mind's eye, she saw the stone tablet resting in a dark, stone cave deep underground. There were snakes carved into the walls, and an enormous statue of a cruel-faced man sitting on a throne presided over the empty chamber. The key she saw on a chain round a young boy's neck, jangling happily as he ran. The book rested in the hands of a wizened old man, with hair and beard as silver as the moon and merry blue eys. The medal hung above a crib in a humble little house, where a baby boy with a small tuft of black hair slept peacefully. The ring encircled the finger of a teenage girl, beautiful in her own way but with scars that run deeper than flesh.

Cassandra knew these dreams were visions of the future, of that she had no doubt. After all, she _was an oracle....._

DISCLAIMER: I own none of the characters portrayed in this story....yada yada yada. I will though. Four, count'em, four original characters! You'll get your introduction to _them in chapter 1. _

PLEASE REVIEW!!!!! ^_~


	2. The Man In Purple

Hi everyone! Chapter one, as promised. Here we are introduced to the following: Heather Grahm, Roger Weisner, Drake Mertoy, and Henry Patterson. The story is narrated by Henry, who happens to be very sarcastic. They are juniors at Tewksbury Memorial High School, which, for all you geographically challenged (just kiddin!) is in Massachusetts. Oh, and just to tell you, the orange juice guy does exist. Trust me on this one....He's a Tewksbury urban legend! hehe. I hope you like, and please review!!!!

## **The Child's Aim Must Miss, Chapter One:**

**The Man In Purple**

** **

We lie in wait, the entire student body of Tewksbury Memorial High, as the clock ticks away the seconds. The instant that little hand reaches the two, all hell will break loose. Four minutes to go.

I stare at the one, lonely little die, shoved into the mesh of the intercom some six years ago. No one ever seems to question its presence; it's a regular member of biology. As integral to the lessons as those discount pickled frogs they love to make us disembowel. That die will always be there, until they tear down the school or until the apocalypse, whichever comes first. It's yellowing at an alarming rate, so that we can't even tell what number is facing out. We think its five, but can't be sure. I'll miss that die, miss staring at it as the clock –who's second hand seems to be at a standstill right about now—ticks away the minutes, seconds, hours until we are liberated. Above the clock is that oh so witty sign that I'm sure they have in every classroom, right above the clock, in every high school on the east coast. You know the one I mean:

# This Clock Will Never Be Stolen

Every student in the class is always watching it!

Hardy-har-har. I'd love to meet the guy who came up with that, I really would. I'd shake his hand with one of those buzzer things. It's the sort of thing that would crack him up. Two minutes to go.

It just figures that my last class of my last day of my junior year of high school is biology. The classroom is stifling, the smell of phormaldehyde is overpowering, and this room is enough to give anyone a major case of claustrophobia. For starters, I've seen walk-in closets with more elbowroom than the TMHS biology lab. It houses six long, formica tables, each designed for two students. Guess how many kids are assigned to each table. You got it. Four. 

Our teacher, Mr. Mason, is totally oblivious to these inconveniences. He thinks his job is a blessing, and comes to school every day with this huge smile on his face. I personally think it's the result of posttraumatic stress left over from the fire we had two years ago. The paper called it a terrifying ordeal for students and faculty alike. That's a joke. It was more like three snow days in a row, in May. There was absolutely no damage done that couldn't be fixed with a broom and a new coat of paint. But Mr. Mason was pretty shaken for a good month and a half after the smoke had cleared, no pun intended. Rumor has it he sees a shrink twice a week and is working an extra job at some gas station in Lowell to pay for his therapy bills. We have yet to receive confirmation.

One minute, thirty seconds to go. I catch Heather's eye from across the stuffy classroom. Never noticed how pretty her eyes are…the color of cinnamon, kind of…. Oh well. She's way out of my league.

One minute exactly to go. I take one last look around the biology lab, taking in everything from that die in the intercom to the all-too-familiar sight of Patti and Laura comparing nail polish. Lately, they've both been sporting different shades of black. They say it's "intellectual". I say its lame. But, they never did ask for my opinion.

Thirty seconds to go. All of a sudden, the intercom crackles, rearing to life. Probably just another "Good luck to our departing senior youngsters" announcement. They've been running those damn things for over a week now. Needless to say, we have all, even the lowly juniors like myself, come to despise the word 'youngster'. But, instead of our bumbling principle wishing us luck, we hear the silky voice of a stranger. There is an undeniable English accent. No one, but no one, in Tewksbury Massachusetts talks like that.

"Excuse me. Would Henry Patterson, Roger Weisner, Heather Grahm, and Drake Mertoy please report to the auditorium immediately," says the unfamiliar voice, drawing his words out slowly as if wanting to make doubly sure we hear him. I stand up, brushing my messy black hair out of my eyes as I rise from my seat. I catch Heather's eye again as she stands, easing herself gracefully out of her chair. Mr. Mason acknowledges us as we head towards the door.

"Henry, Heather, go on. I guess this is goodbye. Well, good luck!" he says with this huge smile on his face. Really, sometimes I just feel sorry for that guy. He _lives to teach. Hell, he could probably die and not even notice. He'd just come right on into school, toe tag and all, and lecture us on the reproductive habits of amphibians._

As Heather and I walk down the hall together, the bell rings. As anticipated, all hell breaks loose. Its pandemonium. Some genius is blasting Soul Asylum's School's Out on their stereo. Silly string shoots everywhere, courtesy of the 'back-row dilinquents'. Kids bolt for the doors, knocking into one another in their attempt to be the first one out. Once the throng subsides, I pry myself away from the wall only to find that I had been inadvertently pushed up against a water fountain. My shirt is soaked, which Heather happens to find absolutely hilarious.

"You think this is funny?" I ask her, a grin playing on my lips.

"No, no. Of course not. I think it's tragic. Right up there with the destruction of the rainforests and cancer," she replies, giggling all the while. We walk the rest of the way to the auditorium in silence. Right in front of the entrance, we meet up with Roger and Drake. Maybe here is a good place to insert some description, no?

Okay, we'll start with me. I'm average height, not built but not totally skinny either. I have this thick, messy black hair that always sticks up, no matter what I do. I used to wear glasses, but I finally convinced my parents to let me get contact lenses two years ago. I have bright green eyes, my only redeeming feature. All in all, I'm not that much to look at, in my humble opinion.

Heather Grahm, on the other hand, is quite nice to look at. She has really thick, dark brown hair that cascades down her shoulders. It used to be really curly and messy, but she got a straightener for Christmas in our sophomore year. She has pretty cinnamon colored eyes and absolutely perfect skin. No messy zit creams for her! Although she does seem to be developing a bad bruise on her forehead...her lip was split wide open last week...Oh well. She does play softball, and some of those girls are scary. Anyways, Heather's kind of short, about five feet two inches, and very slender. She's a total brain, yet somehow still manages not to be a geek. That takes talent in this school.

Roger Weisner is sort of awkward looking. He's really tall, really thin, and really pale. Everything about him is extreme. He has myriad freckles all over his face, arms, legs, and probably places I don't even want to think about. He has shockingly bright red/orange hair that's always falling into his eyes. The only reason I know him is that we've shared detention a few times. He's really funny, in a sarcastic way. I like him.

Drake Mertoy was named perfectly, to tell you the truth. He brings to mind Katherine Mertoy, from Cruel Intentions. He's rich, a total snob, cruel to the bone, and his two favorite pastimes are sex and making jokes at other peoples' expense. Needless to say, I don't think much of the guy. He has thin, white-blonde hair, perfectly gelled with every strand in place. He has gray eyes, pale skin, and a sharp nose. The ladies love him, though I have no idea why. He looks like a vampire or something. Say it with me folks: sunlight!

The four of us stand in front of the doors to the auditorium, murmuring our obligatory "hellos. We don't really know one another that well. Drake pushes the doors open, leading us into the dark auditorium. The stage is set for the graduation ceremony to take place tonight. The podium is up, there are balloons all over, and someone has hung a huge banner saying CONGRATS SENIORS! on the back wall. Standing behind the podium is a very tall, very thin man dressed from head to toe in purple. Purple robes, purple cloak, purple pointy hat. He has a long white beard, shining like silver even in the dim light of the auditorium. Standing next to him is another tall man, with thick dark hair and a lively smile. He's wearing long, black robes. He winks down at the four of us as we walk towards them. The pair says nothing as we take seats in the front row, sitting right in front of the two men.

"Another couple of escapees from Tewksbury Memorial Hospital, eh?" Roger asks, pointing to the tall man in purple and his friend. The rest of us laugh softly, trying not to be heard.

Tewksbury Memorial Hospital is a mental institution, down by the library on Main Street. There used to be this guy, maybe about forty years old, who would run around the lawn in his bathrobe. He occasionally came down to Livingston Street, where the Little League baseball games are played. He would scream at the top of his lungs that he was a glass of orange juice, and you'd better not tip him over because you'd spill him. 

I've managed to snag the seat next to Heather, with Roger on my other side. Drake sits a few seats down from us, a part of our group yet distant. I think that it must be hard for him, not really having any friends…but then I realize that it's impossible for me to see things from that guy's perspective. Why? Well, my head just won't _go that far up my ass. Yes, I'm horrible, I know._

We only have to wait a few more seconds until the pair of men on the stage start to speak. Well, actually, the old man with the long beard and purple robes starts to speak. The other guy just stands there, looking down at us with this annoying little smirk on his face, like he knows something we don't. I _hate that look, unless I'm the one wearing it._

"Greetings all!" exclaims the old guy. I recognize his voice as the one we heard over the intercom. "Henry Patterson, Heather Grahm, Roger Weisner, and Drake Mertoy, welcome! Now, I know you're wondering why you're here, so maybe I should do a little explaining, no?" says the man in purple. He then winks at me, like we share a secret, and leans down to get something-a piece of paper maybe? -out of a black leather satchel next to the podium. I didn't even notice it was there. As he bends over, I see a long, pointed bit of wood poking out of his back pocket (who knew robes _had back pockets?). Now, if there is any logical reason for carrying a stick in one's back pocket, I would be very interested to hear it. Any thoughts? I didn't think so._

The old guy apparently finds what he's looking for and stands up straight, facing us once again. He has a bit of paper in his hands, really old, yellow notebook paper. The edges are all ripped and torn, and I can tell the man is afraid he might rip it even more. He starts to speak again, this time looking at the paper in his hands rather than us, which is a relief. "You are four very special teenagers, very special. You have been…chosen. Yes, yes. Chosen, that's the word."

I happen to think that Roger was right on target; this guy _does sound nuts. Any second now he'll be telling us that we're the next generation of Power Rangers (my little cousin loves that show, and I baby sit him a lot, so don't you dare make fun of me). And his little friend up there is really starting to get on my nerves. He keeps staring at me, still wearing that smirk. He doesn't blink much, which really unnerves me. Creepy._

From the time the old guy started talking till now, we've all been sitting in a sort of reverent silence, without even a wisecrack from Roger to break it. But, after being told that we had been "chosen", the hilariousness of the situation strikes us full force. Heather rolls over in her seat, giggling like mad. Roger and I are laughing fit to kill, and even Drake manages to muster a few chuckles. I mean, here we are, technically one half hour into summer vacation, and we're being lectured by a guy in long purple robes on our "special"ness. It takes a few minutes for the crazy laughter to subside, and when we compose ourselves, we see the old guy smiling down at us, his friend in black still smirking, but in a merry way. I had been afraid they'd either be offended or just think that we were as whacko as we thought they were, but one look at the men's' faces eases my concern. No one says anything for a few moments; we all just sit there, smiling at nothing.

Finally, the silence is broken, by Roger of course. "Chosen for what, exactly?"

"An excellent question, yes, yes. A very good question young man. Outstanding inquiry, yes, yes," replies the old man in purple.

"Oh, _that helps," mutters Roger. I snort. He is right, you know. The old guy just totally dodged his question. The man in black suddenly looks up, as if startled by something. He takes out a stick, just like the one I saw sticking out of the man in purple's back pocket, and points it at Roger. He mutters something under his breath, and suddenly a jet of cold water sprays Roger directly in the face! It looks like its coming from the stick…? Oh well. Laugh now; think later, that's always been my policy. So, I burst into what can only rightfully be described as giggles. Roger's totally soaked from head to toe when it stops, and the guy in black is chuckling. He seems very pleased with himself, but the man in purple looks scornful._

"Sirius!" he barks, his voice positively dripping with authority and power. The echoes of his reprieve fill the empty auditorium for a few minutes, while Heather, Drake, and I try to stop laughing at poor Roger, who does _not look happy. At least now we have a name for the man in black. __Sirius. Strange name, but a whole lot more interesting than Henry._

"Sorry, Headmaster," says Sirius, sounding apologetic but with a grin still playing on his lips. He to has an obvious English accent. "Er, any more comments from the peanut gallery?" he asks us. "I promise not to pull a trick like that again. What was your name, boy?"

"Roger. Roger Weisner," replies Roger, his sullen expression long gone. Roger always enjoys a good prank, even when it's directed at him.

"Ah, Roger, yes. So sorry for that little, er…outburst. Got a little carried away," Sirius says, still wearing that small grin. 

"Don't worry about it; I didn't have time to shower after gym today" replies Roger, his grin rivaling Sirius's tooth for tooth. We all laugh, even the man in purple.

"Perhaps young Roger is right. Perhaps I should tell you more about why you are here and what is to be done," says the man in purple with a twinkle in his eye. "But, I'd much rather show you."

He beckons us to come on stage, still clutching the torn piece of paper. As we walk up towards the podium and the two men, Heather catches my eye again. Neither one of us looks away for a moment, but then she ducks her head, her cheeks flushed. She's playing with that ring of hers again, twirling it in her fingers. Heather's always doing that, it's a trademark move.

The man in purple holds up the piece of paper, and I see that there is a time and date written on it in very scribbly handwriting. It says: June 13, 2:35 p.m. I glance down at my watch; it's 2:34 right now. 

"Now, please put one finger on the piece of parchment. Yes, just one finger will do," instructs the man in purple-what _is his name?-as he places his own index finger on the paper. "You to, Sirius. I wouldn't want to go leaving you behind."_

We all crowd into a small, tight circle, each one of us touching the piece of paper. Sirius is on my left, Roger on my right. Maybe now would be a good time to mention that I have a slight case of claustrophobia. No one talks; the only sound in the darkened auditorium is the ticking of my wrist watch. Then, Sirius starts to count backwards under his breath. "And in five...four...three...two...one."

Just then I feel a humongous tugging, in the area of my stomach. I'm being jerked uncontrollably forward. The sensation isn't as painful as it is frightening. I don't know where I'm going, or whether the others will be with me when I get wherever that is.

Then, as suddenly as it started, the pulling stops. I'm thrown off balance by the shock of my feet hitting solid ground again, and I fall to the ground with both Roger and Sirius on top of me. Can we say "Owies"?

As we all get up, dusting off our bruised behinds, I take a look around where we've landed. It's a large circular room, decorated like an office. There's a desk at the far end, and there are huge bookshelves lining the walls. Perched on the shelves are portraits of old men and women who are...waving at me? There's also a very large bird, rather like a giant red and gold parrot, perched on a globe right next to the desk. It's looking at me, not blinking...I think I may have hit my head on something. The man in purple walks behind the desk, sits down and waves his hand, gesturing to the room. 

"Welcome to my office. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in England," he says, looking at each of us in turn. I follow suit, turning to look at my friends and Sirius. Roger looks confused, there's no other word for it. Drake looks jaded, like none of this is impressing him at all, but he can't fool me. I see his eyes flick from one amazing object to another, taking in everything there is to see. Heather looks dumbfounded, as if someone just gave her a check for a million dollars and she doesn't quite believe it's real. Sirius still looks amused, still looks like he knows something we don't, which I guess he does. Professor Dumbledore looks serene, confident in his own knowledge and wisdom. There are so many questions running through my head, I don't know where to start. Finally I hit on the most obvious. 

"How the hell did we get to England?" 

DISCLAIMER: I don't own Dumbledore or Sirius, or Tewksbury Memorial High School for that matter. Trust me, if for some odd reason I owned a high school, it wouldn't be that one…..

THANK YOU'S: 

Props and gratitude to AnimeGirl, the only person to review this story so far. Which brings me to my next point…….

PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I really want feedback on this story; I worked really hard it. I as a reader make it a priority to review EVERYTHING I read, and plus, you review me, I'll review you. PLEASE?????? I'll luv ya forever, I swear…….


	3. Fawkes Did a Bad, Bad Thing

Hey everyone! Sorry this chapter took so long, and sorry it's kind of short. This is really a transitional chapter, so not much will really be explained. We do get to see Henry's boxers though…that's worth something, right? Read on, I hope you like, and PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!! ^_~

**The Child's Aim Must Miss, Chapter 2:**

** **

**Fawkes Did a Bad, Bad Thing**

"How the hell did we get to England?" I ask, my eyes scanning Dumbledore's face for clues. If he only had three noses, it would prove my theory that I had hit my head, and I wouldn't have to deal with all the information I had just taken in. The England thing was weird enough, but I could swear I'd heard the words "witchcraft" and "wizardry". My only reaction? Riiiiiight......

"Port key," says an amused voice behind me. I turn around to face the speaker, Sirius. He's stopped smirking by now, and is out-and-out laughing at us. I can't really blame him. We must all look dumbfounded, which is not a flattering way to look at all.

"And a port key would be…?" asks Heather from across the room. She's looking at all the heavy volumes weighing down the bookshelves, running her fingers over their spines, reading their titles. She keeps walking slowly around the circular office, waiting patiently for Sirius's answer as she peruses Dumbledore's library. 

"A port key is a way of transportation that we wizards use," says Dumbledore, his blue eyes sparkling behind his half-moon glasses.

"**_WE?!!?!!_**" comes the shrieked reply from Roger and Drake, in unison, from the other end of the office. 

"Yes, we. As in me, him, you, you, you, and you," says Sirius, pointing to himself, Dumbledore, Drake, Roger, Heather, and me in turn. His eyes linger on my face, waiting for my reaction. Even when Drake and Roger let out a string of not-very-nice words, his gaze still holds steady. Our eyes lock, and for a moment neither one blinks, neither looks away. We simply stand in silence, watching each other with an intensity that is somewhat frightening. Finally, I blink…and blink…and blink. My eyes start to water…tears stream down my cheeks. I bite my lip, trying not to scream out in anguish. The pain is so great, I can't even think straight….

That damn bird bit me!!! I never did like animals. I mean, sure they're cute and all, but even that's only when they're across the room. Stupid thing, bit me right in the butt. Oh my God, my pants are soaked in blood….This is not good….

"What happened?" asks Sirius with a frantic tone in his voice. He obviously can't see my mutilated bottom, or the dumb bird sitting behind me, calmly chewing a piece of my khakis. He has managed to attract the attention of everyone else in the office with his outburst (Sirius, not my new feathered friend). Dumbledore looks from me to the bird, an annoyed expression on his wizened old face. Things are clearly not going his way today, poor guy. Oh, did I forget to mention? A BIRD THE SIZE OF A SMALL LAWNMOWER JUST BIT ME IN THE BUTT!!!! Dumbledore immediately shoves the bird rather roughly into its cage, murmuring under his breath.

"Sirius! Take him to Madame Pomfrey. I'll stay here with the others," he says to Sirius, his eyes pausing for a second on my face, which at the moment is twisted in pain and anger. Stupid bird….

"Yes, Headmaster," replies Sirius. He puts a rough hand on my shoulder, guiding me to the door. I turn to walk away before remembering that a large portion of the seat of my pants is in that heinous creature's beak. Laughter erupts from my companions, from Roger's heavy guffaw to Heather's muted giggles.

"Why Henry! What pretty little ducky boxers! Lemme guess, did your mommy pick them out for you?" asks Drake, a malicious smirk playing on his thin lips. His eyes flick from my boxers (I happen to like ducks, okay?) to my face.

"Yeah, Henry. Or, should I say, Mr. Quack Quack?" says Heather, grinning at me, her eyes sparkling with fun. Suddenly, I hear a whispery voice singing.

"I see London, I see France. I see Henry's underpants! I see London, I see France. I SEE HENRY'S UNDERPANTS!" As I leave the office, my three "friends" have taken up the tune and are singing at the top of their lungs. Thanks a lot, Roger….

Sirius doesn't talk as we walk along the deserted hallways. I can tell he's just dying to say something, but he seems to think I've been embarrassed enough for one day. I'm glad. 

These hallways are incredible; all of the walls are made of some dark gray stone, like brick to the touch. Every twenty feet or so, tall windows hung with blood red drapes let in the afternoon sunlight. Portraits of all shapes and sizes adorn the stone walls. Suits of armor guard the entrances to the many doors on either side of the corridor. Everything is quiet. 

All of a sudden, I hear a whisper from behind me. I whirl around, hoping to catch Roger and/or Drake, but there's no one there. Sirius gives me an odd look, and then continues walking. I glance nervously around; Sirius and I are the only ones here. Then I hear it again, a hushed whisper from behind me. I turn on my heel, facing in the direction I thought the voice came from. I hear it again, and suddenly I'm surrounded by hushed laughter, quickly silenced chuckles.

Sirius points in the direction of one of the portraits, a knight and a fat pony in a grassy field, and then whispers to me "These portraits always have enjoyed a good joke. Apparently they're fond of ducks as well."

My eyes flick from Sirius' amused face to the painting of the knight-who is now waving at me and screaming something incoherent-and back again. Then I look around, and am stunned to see that all of the paintings can move, and that all heads are craned in my direction, looking no doubt at the gaping hole in my pants. This day just gets better and better. As I rush forward to catch up to Sirius, I keep both hands behind my back, holding my pants together so as not to give the paintings another free peep show.

"The paintings…they move? And talk?" I ask Sirius as we continue to make our way towards wherever it is that we're going. For a moment, I've forgotten the enormous pain in my backside, and curiosity has gotten the better of me.

"Yes, in our world. The photographs move, too. I'll have to show you some," replies Sirius.

"Where are we going? I hope it's not too much farther…"

"Don't worry, we're almost there. Dumbledore told me to take you to the Hospital Wing. Madame Pomfrey can help that nasty cut you got from Fawkes."

"Who's Madame Pomfrey? Is Fawkes that stupid little canary that took a bite out of me?" I ask. At this, Sirius bursts out laughing. 

"Yes, Fawkes is the bird that bit you. But don't let Dumbledore hear you calling him a canary; he's very sensitive when it comes to that creature. Fawkes is his pet phoenix," says Sirius through his hearty laughter.

"A phoenix? I thought those were…you know…made up," I counter.

"Nope, they're as real as me or you. I would think you'd have learned that by now, what with your experience-" here he collapsed into laughter again "-that Fawkes is no canary!" Very funny. "And, Madame Pomfrey is the nurse here at Hogwarts; she'll fix you up really quick."

"I think I'm going to need stitches. The cut is pretty deep, and there's a lot of blood," I reply.

"Does it hurt much? And no, of course you won't need stitches! Madame Pomfrey can mend cuts in about a minute, you'll be fine."

"But, there's no guarantee that Fawkes will live to see the light of another day…."

**DISCLAIMER:** you know I don't own any of it, I know I don't own any of it, so why even bother with this disclaimer? Oh, wait. I do own Henry, Heather, Roger, and Drake. Forgot about them for a second.

**THANK YOU'S:**

Total gratitude to Katia, Zelda, Scarlett Stephanie, and Caro for the encouragement and support.

Thanks to GentleWaterSoul and clara2000 for being wonderfully impatient. Just kidding, just kidding. All will be revealed in due time….*evil laugh* 

Props to AnimeGirl, my very first reviewer.

Thanks and gratitude to everyone who has reviewed this story so far. I hope you'll keep telling me your opinions on it.

**Next order of business:** Please review!!!!!!! I'll luv ya forever, I swear. Come on, do the right thing. You know you want to…..^_~


	4. 

A/N: Hey everybody

**A/N**: Hey everybody! Here it is, chapter three! Aren't you all just so excited? I was going to make this chapter really long, but then I realized that I haven't updated this story for over a month! *gasp* So, I just split what I was going to have happen in this chapter in half, and you'll see the second part in the form of chapter four. I hope you like it and, as always, please review!!!

**The Child's Aim Must Miss, Chapter Three:**

**Horror Films _Can_ be Educational**

"Do you see the table with the yellow cloth, second from the left? That's where you'll be sitting," says Sirius. His eyes are darting nervously around the deserted hallway. Apparently, according to Professor Dumbledore, Sirius cannot be seen by anyone. I have absolutely no idea why, he's pretty good looking. Bad pun, I know. My butt doesn't hurt anymore, but apparently my puns are suffering as always. Stupid bird....

Sirius is pointing into an immense room, filled with kids wearing long, black robes just like Sirius'. Stylin'. The delicious smell of food is wafting through the doorway, making my mouth water. Dinner time already? 

"Do not speak of me amongst yourselves. Walk straight to the very end of the table. Do not attract attention to yourselves. I don't want to start a panic…" Sirius continues, his last sentence trailing off into nothingness. Then he gives me a rough nudge, forcing me into the room. The others trail behind, as nervous as I am. I mean, the way Sirius was talking, you would have thought we were secret agents on a mission to save the world. 

"Yes, Sirius! My name is Bond, Drake Bond," murmurs Drake under his breath. I guess he was thinking the same exact thing.

"Shut up! You heard what he said!" hisses Heather.

"You are such a goody-goody!" Drake retorts, his voice positively dripping with contempt. I swear, one of these days…Let's just put it this way, at the rate he's going, he'll lead a shorter life than Fawkes.

"Well, it just so happens that the 'goody-goody' has a point, so shut your yap!" I say.

"Yes'm Mr. Quacky-Pants."

I roll my eyes and walk to the end of the yellow table, just like Sirius said to do. The other kids at the table look mostly younger than us, in their early teens. There are a few other sixteen year-olds, but they don't even look up when we sit down. It doesn't surprise me; when was the last time _I went out of my way to greet a new kid? _

"Roll out the welcome wagon, why don'tcha?" cracks Roger in this hillbilly voice. We all laugh softly, each one thinking his or her own thoughts. Heather looks up at the ceiling, her eyes glazing over. I follow her gaze, and gasp. The ceiling is a dark, velvety shade of black, dotted with tiny pricks of light. A huge silver orb sits in the center of the display.

"Holy…if only NASA could see this…" I murmur. Heather tears her eyes away from the ceiling and nods at me. We don't tell the others about our discovery.

"What the hell is that?" asks Roger, distracting me and Heather. He's poking some sort of dark brown substance with his fork. It jiggles. "It's ALIVE!!!" he says, in a distorted Bill Cosby voice. We all laugh, and agree silently not to eat that freakish Jell-O experiment gone wrong. In fact, we don't eat anything at all. Why? Well, a combination of factors. First off, English food is notorious, to use a vocabulary word, for being nasty. Second, we all have other things on our minds. 

"Okay. Time to get serious," Drake says in a hushed voice, obviously trying not to be heard by the kids in black robes sitting all around us.

"Serious about what?" I ask. He looks really nervous.

"Serious about what is going on here! I mean, this is crazy! I think we should escape; just blow these weirdoes off," he replies. 

"You have been reading too Christopher Pike books, my man. Let's just chill for a while. See what the old guy has in mind, ya know?" Roger says. He looks calm, laid back. 

"Yeah. Like, he hasn't tried to hurt us or anything," Heather chimes in.

"Ahem," I say, and she looks my way, blushing.

"Well, if you don't count Henry's accident," she replies, giggling. Roger snorts, but Drake still looks edgy.

"Listen, Drake. She's right. Nobody has tried to hurt us. Sides, this isn't some horror flick. Trust me, ole buddy. There is no killer lurking in the bushes with a knife, just waiting for someone who forgot the rules," Roger says. 

"Rules? What rules?" asks Drake. Roger and I roll our eyes, but Heather looks confused as well. 

"Didn't you two see Scream, only the best splatter movie ever made?" I ask. "He's quoting number one."

"Number one? There is _only one, man. Two and three sucked."_

"Nah. Two definitely sucked, but three wasn't that bad."

"Oh please. I am a purist. I believe that sequels can never live up to their originals."

"Would you two please tell me what you're talking about, or at least change the subject?" asks Heather impatiently.

"Okay, I'll explain. There are three basic rules that you must abide by in order to survive a horror movie," I answer. "Rule one: you cannot have sex." At this, Roger boos loudly. "No sex! Why? Well, who is it that always survives the huge chase scene at the end? The virgin! Okay, rule two: you cannot drink or do drugs. This is an extension of rule one, the sin factor. And rule three, the most important of the lot: Never, under any circumstances, leave a crowded room and say 'I'll be right back', because you won't," I finish. 

"Very useful, very useful," Drake says rolling his eyes.

"Is this what boys talk about? God…" Heather teases. We go back to sitting in silence for a few minutes, Heather looking up at the starry ceiling, Roger using his spoon to catapult the giggly brown substance into the air, Drake simply staring into space, and me simply staring at Heather. Hoo boy, I've got it bad.

"Aw, here we go. Now that's what I'm talkin' about," Drake says. He points at a tall, slim girl that has just entered the huge room. She has long, shiny black hair and almond shaped eyes. "Does rule one still stand?"

"Not with her. Yikes," says Roger, his jaw hanging somewhere down around his feet. Heather rolls her eyes and goes back to staring at the ceiling; I can't say I blame her, it's beautiful. Roger and Drake, the expert observers they are, haven't even noticed it yet. Besides, they're just a tad busy right now. Wonder Girl has taken a seat at the table next to ours, the one with the bright blue table cloth. Heather starts humming absentmindedly. I recognize the tune as that bubble-gummy pop song "Summer Girls" by some boy band (who can keep them all straight?) Last summer, that was The Song.

"Oh yeah, Heather. Sing it!," Roger exclaims. Then he bursts into song himself. "I like girls that wear black robes that fit!"

Drake jumps in, this time hissing at Roger so he won't be heard. "In all the right places, if you know what I mean." He has this devilish grin on his face, and he keeps leering over at Wonder Girl. I told you I don't think much of this guy. Him and Roger slap hands while they snigger. 

"Please, Roger. I expected more from you!" I scold, wagging my finger in his face. We all burst out laughing, causing some of the younger kids sitting a few feet down from us to look up. One little boy-he might be about twelve- stares open-mouthed at me, before whipping his head around to look at the table on the far right with the dark red table cloth. "You guys, I think we've been spotted," I say, pointing at the little boy, who is now frantically talking to his friends and nodding his head in our direction.

"Eep. Should we go find Sirius?" asks Roger, after which he is promptly shushed and scolded for saying Sirius' name. "Well, sor-ry!" he says, sticking his lower lip out as far as it will go and crossing his arms over his chest. 

"I think that we should just go back to Professor Dumbledore's office," says Heather, always the voice of reason.

"Yeah. Good idea," I say, and start to get up out of my seat. Heather and Drake follow suit and we start to leave when we hear a sulky voice from behind us.

"I don't wanna! You can't make me!" says Roger, pouting for all he's worth. Under normal circumstances, I would find this situation hilarious, but that little boy has a big mouth; now the whole table is staring at us and pointing. I grab Roger's elbow and steer him out of the room.

"Come on, Roger. We. Have. To. Go," I say, jerking on his arm to punctuate each word. He comes along, grumbling softly. As we wind our way through the chairs and students, we get a lot of funny looks. This day just gets better and better.

We finally go through the huge doors that lead out of the packed room and into the cool, silent hallway. I lead the way, wandering through the immense, stone halls. The sun has set, so the huge windows no longer let in any sunshine. The halls are lit with torches attached to the walls. It looks medieval and menacing, not to mention creepy. I really hope I know where I'm going...

_***A conversation from the other side of the Great Hall…..***_

_ _

Colin: Harry! Harry!

Harry: Yes Colin?

Colin: How'd you get here?

Harry: What do you mean, how did I get here? I've been sitting in this same spot all through dinner.

Colin: But…but…I saw you!

Ron: I see him every day Colin. So does Hermione. It's not like the kid is invisible."

Harry: Shut up Ron. Now, what do you mean you saw me?

Colin: I mean that I just saw you! You were sitting at the Hufflepuff table with Ron and Hermione and Draco.

Harry: Why on earth would I be sitting at the Hufflepuff table, with Malfoy no less?

Colin: I don't know, but I saw you!

Harry: *silence*

Colin: I did! I know I saw you!

Harry: *more silence*

Colin: I did!

Harry: *even more silence*

Colin: Fine then. *walks away, shaking his head*

Ron: That was…odd.

Hermione: Yeah.

Harry: Really odd….

** **

**Thank You's:**

To Lindsay Beth, thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you thank you!!! Oh, did I forget to mention thank you?!

Gratitude to Zed, lunakitten, Caro, Zelda, and everyone else who reviewed. Thank you soooo much for the support.

**Next order of business….**

PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I would appreciate feedback so much!!! *Plz?*


	5. Soap Opera Digest

A/N: hi everyone

A/N: hi everyone! Here it is, chapter 4. Here is where you get a little bit of explanation…but not much. Lol. Gotta luv me. I hope you like, and PLEASE REVIEW!!!!

The Child's Aim Must Miss: Chapter 4 

**Soap Opera Digest**

** **

It's official. I am definitely, undoubtedly, and unarguably lost. No kidding. I keep walking straight along the deserted hallways, taking turns now and then so the others think I know where I'm going, but I seem to be running our little group in circles. We must have left the dining room at least twenty minutes ago. There's no one around, no one human at least. These paintings really do need to be taught some manners; they should know by now that pointing and laughing is very rude.

Heather lightly taps me on the shoulder. "You don't know where we are, do you Henry?" she asks, her voice sounding small in the immense stone hall. 

"What tipped you off, my confused expression or the fact that we've passed that statue twice?" I ask, pointing to a white bust sitting on a black marble pedestal to our left. The man has thick, wavy hair, a square jaw, and a playful smirk that reminds me a bit of Sirius. I glance down at the plaque placed under the bust and read _Godric Gryffindor. What on earth was his mother thinking?_

"A little bit of both. I'm smart that way," Heather replies, bringing me back to reality. I smile at her, and then glance back at Roger and Drake. They're arguing over exactly how old Wonder Girl is. Magnificent conversationalists, no?

"Okay, but seriously, where do we go?" she asks, her grin replaced with a tight, concerned frown. I have no answer for her, so I just shake my head and shrug. We keep walking in silence, until I hear a slightly familiar voice call out….

"Weary travelers! I judge you have come to these fine lands in order to partake of this feast I have set forth?" screams that knight I saw with Sirius on my way to the nurse's station. He's standing on top of an immense wooden table, with a dappled gray pony grazing nearby in the painting. Seated at the table is an array of guests, including a giggly mermaid who keeps making eyes at Drake and a very large woman in a hot pink dress. Roger and Drake do a double-take, their eyes widening as they realize who is speaking to them. Heather, who noticed the animated portraits on either side of the hall as soon as we left the dining room, just laughs. 

"Speak up, you naves! Do not stare at Sir Cadogan!" screams the knight, who sounds just a tad tipsy. His helmet is askew and he is stumbling around the tabletop, knocking over plates of meat and goblets of wine. Roger starts snickering, and Drake joins him. Heather and I exchange looks and silently decide that taking directions from this guy is probably not a good idea. 

I nudge Roger and whisper in his ear "Don't laugh, it's obvious the guy's unbalanced. Let's just go, okay?" He nods, then taps Drake and points down the hall, indicating that we're leaving. We walk for a ways in silence, then burst out laughing when we're sure Sir Cadogan can't hear us.

As the laughter subsides, I make my confession. "Okay, you guys? Sorry, but I have no clue where I'm going," I say.

"No shit, Sherlock!" exclaims Drake, bursting into laughter again. "We've known that for, what? Ten minutes?" He can barely breathe now, he's laughing so hard. Very funny….

"So we're lost, right?" asks Roger. "So, we should just keep taking rights. We'll have to end up _somewhere_," he says. "And then at least we'll be able to come back the way we came." Even I have to admit, it's a good idea. So, the next fork we come to, we take a sharp right. We continue on our course in silence.

"You there! Potter! Weasley! Granger! Malfoy! What on earth are you doing here? Professor Dumbledore sent for you over half an hour ago!" calls out a voice behind us. I turn around and am greeted with a short, rather porky old woman with frizzy gray hair and a hooknose. She is shaking her finger at us disapprovingly while she continues on her tangent. "Never would have thought I'd find you four together, let alone down the charms corridor! You know very well that this area of the castle is off-limits except for classes!" she scolds, shaking her head. 

I look back at Roger, Drake, and Heather. They all look as shocked as I'm sure I do. The woman motions for us to follow her, shaking her head and muttering to herself about how students these days have no respect. After about ten minutes of walking, she stops suddenly, causing me to stumble into her.

"Watch where you're going, Potter!" she barks. I turn to face Heather.

"Potter?" I ask her. She just shrugs and motions for me to look at the woman.

"Well, now that I have your attention-" she glares at me "-Professor Dumbledore said for you to go on up. The passwords 'sugar quill'." Then she turns and leaves without another word.

"Okay, that was fun," says Roger, breaking the uncomfortable silence that has settled over our little group. 

"Yeah, really," says Drake, rolling his eyes. "What was she calling us anyway?"

"I don't know. Anyway, I think this is the entrance to Professor Dumbledore's office," says Heather, calm as usual. "So, that woman helped us out. We're right where we wanted to be, aren't we?" she asks, one eyebrow raised. Heather's always doing that, raising one eyebrow. I don't know how she does it. 

"Yeah," replies Drake, looking sullen and at the same time relieved.

"So stop complaining!" says Heather. Then she turns around and examines the wall. "I don't see a door here…."

"Me neither," I say, moving up to stand next to Heather. "Maybe we need to say the password…?"

"Great idea, Henry!" she exclaims. "Now, what did she say it was? Sugar…sugar something," Heather says, trailing off into silence as she tries to remember the password.

"It was something weird, like sugar quote or something," pipes up Roger.

"Or maybe it was sugar QUACK!" hollers Drake, going into a fit of hysterics. Roger starts flapping his arms and quacking while Drake just laughs. I roll my eyes, and Heather tries to suppress a giggle.

"Go ahead. Yuk it up, clowns. _I'm_ gonna figure out the password, if that's perfectly alright with you," I say. "Sugar…sugar…sugar quill! Yeah, that was it." As soon as the words leave my mouth, an immense stone gargoyle leaps to life about three feet to my left. Okaaaay….

"Oh my…" whispers Heather as the gargoyle opens up a panel in the wall, about the size of a door. Inside is a narrow, steep spiral staircase that leads straight up. I look at Heather, who nods. I lead the way up the stairs, the others trailing behind. We're plunged into total darkness as the gargoyle shuts the panel in the wall, but we keep climbing upwards.

Just when my legs are starting to get tired and Drake starts whining, I walk straight into something solid. The floor is flat now and the staircase is gone. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize I'm standing in front of a huge door. 

"What's the holdup, Henry?" calls Roger.

"Yeah. Not that I'm not having the time of my life down here, really I am, but I have a stitch!" hollers Drake.

"I'm at the very top. There's a door. What should I do?" I call down.

"What should you do? Start tap dancing to old show tunes! Open the door, dumbass," screams Drake. 

"_Fiiine…_" I say. Heather giggles, then nudges me forward. I grasp the large brass knob in my hand, then turn it until I hear the latch click. I enter Dumbledore's office for the second time today, and stop short when I see who is already sitting in it, looking perfectly calm. Heather, who was immediately behind me, stumbles into my back. Then come Roger and Drake, hurrying into the room so fast they knock Heather and me to the floor. Then they trip over us, and we're all lying in a disgruntled heap on the floor of the office.

"Well well well. Come in, come in! I would offer you chairs, but if you find the floor that much more comfortable, then by all means," says Professor Dumbledore, a grin playing on his lips. Roger, Drake, Heather, and I untangle ourselves and stand up. "There are some people here that I would like you to meet," says Dumbledore, gesturing to the four kids seated in front of his desk. 

"Drake Mertoy, meet Draco Malfoy," he says, pointing from Drake to a very pale, thin guy with shiny white-blonde hair and silvery eyes. He could pass for Drake, easy. The two are almost identical.

"Roger Weisner, allow me to introduce you to Ronald Weasley," says Professor Dumbledore, gesturing from Roger to what could have been his identical twin.

"Heather Grahm, I give you Hermione Granger," he says, indicating the only two girls in the room. Out of everyone introduced so far, those two look the least alike. For one thing, Heather's hair is straight, while the other girl's is rather frizzy and bushy. Heather also has a much clearer complexion, and she is a lot thinner than the other girl. 

I take a look around the crowded room. Everyone is examining their look-alike, wearing shocked and dumbfounded expressions on their faces.

"And, last but not least, Henry Patterson, meet Harry Potter," says Professor Dumbledore gesturing from myself to a boy exactly my height, with messy black hair and green eyes. It's almost like looking in a mirror, except for the fact that this kid has glasses and a weird-looking tattoo of a lightning bolt on his forehead. For a moment, we all stand there and no one says a word. The silence is finally broken, by Roger of course.

"You know what? This kid may have my freckles and my hair color, but he ain't got my moves!" he says, starting to break dance right there on the office floor. Only problem is, he's not too good at it and ends up whacking his head on the desk. Serves him right. Okay, not really, but it was very funny. All of us American kids are standing there laughing our heads off, except for Roger obviously, but the other kids are just standing there not saying a word.

Drake starts to get into the spirit, following right in Roger's footsteps. "Well, young Draco," he says, drawing out the English kid's name. "I only have one thing to say to you. You may be lucky enough to have a few of my features, but lemme tell ya. I make this look good!" he hollers, starting to strut around the room. Then Drake and Roger burst into song.

"I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt. SO SEXY IT HURTS!!!" they sing out, doing over-the-top model poses and laughing hysterically. By then, Heather and I are starting to loosen up.

"Him? Look good? Who says, his mother?" she asks, poking Drake in the ribs as she giggles away.

"Not even her!" Roger calls, causing even more hysterical laughter. The English kids, for their part, are all smiling politely, and Dumbledore is laughing fit to kill. Finally, after we've all settled down, we sit in the eight chairs now sitting in front of his desk. I don't know how they got there; last time I looked there were only four….Oh well. We all sit down next to our look-alikes while Professor Dumbledore starts to speak.

"Now, I know you're all wondering what is going on here," he says. Then one of the English kids, my look-alike no less, finally speaks.

"Professor Dumbledore, does this have anything to do with that book you showed me?" he asks, looking completely focused and intent on the matter at hand.

"Yes, Harry. Now let me explain. You eight children are very special," he begins.

"Oh great, not again," I hiss, causing hushed laughter from Heather, Roger, and Drake. The four English kids glare at me, looking positively scandalized.

"Anyway, you children are very important. But, let me start at the beginning. The person sitting next to you is actually your twin, separated from you at birth for your own protection." 

"Oh my God…" whispers Heather, raising her hand to her mouth in shock.

"Wait a minute. This is real life, not a soap opera. I mean come on," I say, ever the cynic.

"Tune in next week…." says Drake in a hushed voice.

A/N: I'm not doing a Thank You section for this chapter because no one, but no one, reviewed chapter three except for Scarlette Stephanie, but she doesn't count.

PLEASE REVIEW!!!! *gets down on hands and knees* I'm begging you, PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!!!!! I luv you….plz? ^_~


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